As a child I was told to make the four corners
of the house my masjid. But whenever I faced
the qiblah, my feet would unmask their heathen lust.
For real, I wasn’t unreligious but all time, at the mention
of football, the feet developed some spasms,
irresistible — same as the alluring voice of the muezzin.
Once, I would tug behind the kitchen door, awaiting Mother’s
assent to watch a football match; her face, burned with flame
while preparing iftar. What can she say to a boy the simplest
of logic nutmegs? A boy lusting after the food of the feet
while the food of the mouth drives her nuts. A boy lacking
the knowledge that intoxication, in whatever form,
is haram, especially during Ramadan. Sure the origin
of dilemma is wanting: a child cries for a toy gun when
the day’s meals are not assured; the father admonishes
his low ambition, claiming the family needs a real gun
to battle out with hunger. That is, the price of freedom
reads as this: a soiled personality equals survival.
This is my conviction: freedom is a misnomer — say,
it’s the only free thing that sells for a price; a mother
drowns to keep her baby ashore; a father embraces
an arrow aiming to shelter in his son’s bosom; &
a widow is barbecued, so her daughter can keep
the lineage. In all cases freedom is the jaws of death.
Photo by BECCA SIEGEL from Pexels
G. Harry Agida December 18, 2024 13:16
Indeed freedom isn’t really… free, it usually comes at a heavy cost.